I can still hear, right? Against the words in their tornado like vortex, swashing and whizzing around, I listen. The light, in its effort to buzz and snap into ever-present white noise that lives in the back of each irking memory cannot even be heard over these words- these relentless words. I search harder, trying to grab on to the steady, constant sound of pavement grasping at tires, never quite keeping them at a still. Again I feel close to sound. Close to feeling. I can almost hear the blaring, angry fog of unkempt road dwellers in a ceaseless fight to find home. Almost, though. I close in on the thudding sound, the rumble, of a fresh green light and the spur of wheels leaving its company. These noises should be reachable, but not through these words. Standing, like hostages, in each corner of my head, they block any feasible entrance from the outside world; even the most mundane of sounds, even the gentle rain of keystrokes can be only felt rather and not heard. Felt, but barely. While the dense weight of a lightless end settles in my mind it brings a frost that crawls, suffocating warmth out of everything it passes, from the brittle fingertips into the thudding, heart’s bruit. This chill, like that of benumbing solitude, like the words, shows no yield. Eyes raw after seeing those words- torpid in their movements, not wanting to focus again, to see again, to feel the words burning into the feeble, inert, retina. But more than those words, those familiar and comfortable features are stone and gaunt. I look back, austere, so deeply sober. Crestfallen I try to look up, to save us, but bereft of even a whisper I sink again into the sound of silence. I turn with a languid movement to look at him, sitting there, impassive, and I become insensible.
dededos
romaincrisis
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
stormborns
